Prayer of the Refugee
by FreakLives
Summary: Doomed, we all are. A year has passed since the dead started walking, and Joel has come across a new enemy. Not the dead, or even people. Himself. As morals are tested and strangers become family, the real enemy of humanity tests an rugged group of survivors as the look for the urge to find one thing. Something, or someone, to die for.


**Hey Reader! This story is wayyyyy overdue for certain people, and for that I apologize. To keep my sob story short: Life is a royal bitch. My writing skills have definitely improved over the couple month's I've been on this awesome site, so I'm really proud of the final outcome. So, without further ado, here's the first chapter of my story "Prayer of the Refugee"**

_Don't hold me up now_

_I can stand my own ground_

_I don't need your help now _

_You will let me down, down down…_

Rise Against, "Prayer of the Refugee"

"_We as human beings were born with a moral obligation to leave this world a better place than the world that we found"_

_-Tim McIlrath _

"_Humanity ain't always what's pretty. Some of the worst killers are pretty. Humanity ain't always what sounds nice and falls smooth on the ear, 'cause any pitchman can charm a snake, but some pitchmen ain't too humane. A person shows humanity when he's there if you need him, when he takes you in, when he has a genuine kind word, when he makes you feel not alone, when he makes your fight his fight. That's what humanity is, if you want to know. And if we had a little more of it in this world, maybe we could get ourselves out of the handbasket we're in...or at least stop carrying that handbasket straight to Hell, the way we have been for so long."  
_

_-An Anonymous Carnival Pitchman (Twilight Eyes by Dean Koontz…._reference to the first chapter of _What We Become)  
_

Chapter 1: Seize The Night

Sometimes I reminisce about the old Joel. The Joel that was a philosophy major in college, the Joel who had friends, the Joel who liked to enjoy an Ice Cream sandwich and terrible action movie after a hard day, the Joel with a beautiful girlfriend named Sasha. The Joel who was happy.

Then I remember who I am; the new Joel. The Joel that kills.

I was on my daily scour for food and water when I came across the gas station that has fucked my mind for too long. You don't leave a goldmine like that, not anymore at least. My Mossberg 500 was pressed tightly against my shoulder as my boot crunched the broken glass that layered the doorway, lacking the door.

I had picked the shotgun from a dead survivor nearly a year ago, when it all kicked off. I also managed to pull a Taurus Model 66 from the man and a Gerber Hatchet. Now, being a philosophy major, "Post Apocalyptic Badass" isn't exactly in the job description. But if I learned anything in my year of survival that felt like an eternity, it's how to properly fire a 12 gauge shotgun. That and how to make a pretty decent beef stroganoff with beef jerky. Not my idea, but the guy who suggested it is dead now. So, I believe that gives me patent rights.

Anyway, ominous-as-fuck gas station.

Human beings were at the top of the food chain for a long time, millions of years to be specific. So much that our primal, survivalist traits have been buried under false security, frivolous necessity, and -as of the last twenty years-a whole lot of Big Macs. But those traits were still there; the agility of a gazelle, the prowess of a lion, the observance of a hawk. And in the new world I somehow managed to tap into the primal instinct and survive. And those instincts have kept me alive. And those instincts where screaming at me to turn back. To leave this wretched gas station of Hell, but I didn't. I was too hungry.

As I crept into the desolate gas station, my shotgun ready to be raised at a moments notice. The shelves for the most part empty, but the coolers near the back of the store held some salvation; a dozen water bottles.

As I walked on the balls of my feet past a row of shelves towards the cooler, I could feel the cold sweat fall down my forehead. The room felt darker, as if a giant raven cast it shadow into the desolate store. There was an aroma of oncoming violence, but I pressed on.

I knelt to the ground and opened the glass door of the cooler, pressing my back against it to keep it open. The cooler was more like a fridge, except I wasn't welcomed by a blast of cool air. I was met with nothingness. I slipped my OD green backpack off my shoulders and set it in front of me, opening the innermost flap. As I held my Mossberg in my left hand and swept it around the store, I blindly stuffed the water bottles inside. I scanned the store for the dead, calming my breathing as I started to feel safer than I had out there. It was an alien feeling; safety. I didn't like. Not even a little.

When I groped the air of the cooler for more water and didn't touch anything, I spared myself a quick dart of the eyes to confirm I had grabbed all the bottles. I zipped my backpack with one hand, as I was still holding up my shotgun, and slipped it over my shoulders. I stood up, letting the barrel of my gun droop toward the ground but not taking my finger out of the trigger guard. Then I heard it.

An eerie groan. I immediately raised my gun and almost sent a slug into the front counter of the gas station. When I listened to the noise again, I realized it wasn't coming from inside. Fuck.

It was definitely human, I could tell by the apparent pain I heard in the bone-curdling groans and moans. I made a decision and slowly crept toward the doors that lead to the back room. I was hardly breathing and walking on the balls of my feet. As I passed the counter, I looked over it as a precaution. People are smarter, less-predictable, and much, much more brutal than the undead. And that's saying a lot, since the roamers eat you. But it's very true.

Behind the counter offered no more supplies. Or _living _people. My face contorted in disgust as I saw the floor covered in a pool of blood. Smack in the center of the pool, leaning against the wall, was a man. He wore a military uniform, and in his hand he clutched a folding knife. His evidently had a gun; his tactical vest was stripped of magazines for an assault rifle, and his pistol holster was empty. His helmet was gone too, and his boots. Small streams of blood had trickled down his face, and his brown eyes were dead. There was no rising and falling of his chest, but I didn't need to see that to know the man was dead. A machete was stuck in the man's skull. I didn't understand why someone would leave the machete behind, but I didn't dwell on it too much. I just quickly vaulted over the counter, pried the knife from his hand, and slipped it into my pocket. The blood was fresh, and my heart was in my throat as I thought a shadow loomed over my shoulder. I quickly spun on my heels while crouching, and clumsily fell backwards as I faced the counter. I landed next to the dead soldier and kicked myself away from the wall as the sappy blood hit my jeans.

"Dumbass…." I muttered to myself as I stood and vaulted back over the counter. The moans turned into sobbing coughs, and I walked back toward the backroom door.

I was prepared to blow someone's head off. I thought about the dead soldier. My first thought is that someone had killed him, but what if that soldier was trying to kill someone else? And he died because someone tried to protect their selves. Who knows? I would soon enough. My Mossberg was pressed tightly against my shoulder. Sadly- or not so sadly, I can't decide- this shotgun had become my best friend over the past couple months. I knew the weapon inside, and out. But I never shot anything other than walkers and the occasional bird. Could I kill someone if I had too? They funny thing about killing is that you don't think you can actually do it until you actually do it.

The door squeaked as a nudged it opened with both my left hand and the barrel of my gun. I cringed at both the door squeaking and giving off my position, and also the smell. I didn't notice the dead soldier because dead and decomposing body was such a common smell I didn't even bat an eyelash at it. The smell that greeted me was rotted rat, rotten food, and something like spoiled milk. Really gross.

I decided to get it over with fast and pushed open the door with one last resounding screech. The coughing slowly was suppressed. Its owner knew someone- me- was coming. But he had to be injured, and I wasn't. First point goes to Joel.

There was an L-shaped corridor ahead of my. My left hand molded into the wooden pump of my shotgun, and my finger was still lightly pressed against the trigger. As I slowly inched down the corridor, I noticed and empty cardboard container sporting a logo for some brand of beer.

_Holy shit! It's the undead apocalypse, grab the beer!_

I couldn't help but grin. That had to have actually happened, or else I wouldn't have gotten those water bottles up front. Humanity works in mysterious ways.

I continued to creep down the corridor and made my face a slate of stone again. My paranoia caused me to stop and raise my shotgun over to the right and left side of me, looking for shadows conjured up by my mind. Imaginary bats rested above and around me, laughing an evil bat-laugh if there ever was one. The fear pulsed into my veins. At first, it was as steady as the thumping of a heartbeat. Now it was all I could hear, all I could feel. I was suddenly glad for the semi-darkness. Now my adversary couldn't see the fear in my eyes.

Then I came across the corner. I gulped and braced myself in fear of getting a slug into my chest. However, realistically, the man or woman on the other side of the corner probably wouldn't be able to do that. Judging from the wet coughs I heard.

I turned the corner with a raised gun, and I saw a soldier. He was lying on the ground, under a pool of blood like his friend. Except, due to the lack of light, his blood was a murky brown shade. One hand held his side. Another hand held a pistol.

My Mossberg against his handgun; Point two goes to Joel.

The soldier made an attempt to suppress his coughs. He raised the gun at me. The barrel of the pistol was drooping in what seemed like circles since he was obviously too weak to keep me in his sights. It was starting to turn into an uphill battle for soldier boy.

"Drop your gun." He told me. His voice was surprisingly firm, although when he spoke blood trickled out his mouth and onto his chin.

I didn't speak, just stood there at the corner, keeping him in my sights. Like hell I'm gonna drop my Mossberg.

"Drop your gun." He repeated. No, I will not drop my gun. I observed the soldier as he spoke and more blood trickled onto his cheek. He wore fatigues, black boots, and still wore his helmet. I looked at his face and realized he couldn't have been much older than me.

He repeated the statement again, but it came out as a plea this time, "Drop your gun." He then let the pistol in his hand fall and hit the ground with a _clang_.

"Look…..your turn." He told me with a bloody half-grin. I thought over what he was telling me and finally lowered the weapon. I didn't take my finger out of the trigger guard and kept the safety off.

"I want to see both of your hands." I finally spoke to the soldier.

He frowned, "I can't do that. I think if I do my stomach will fall out."

"What happened to your stomach?" I questioned without any emotion in my voice.

He sighed and tried to prop himself up, but failed and fell back against the wall. He looked up at me and exhaled numerous times, "I got jumped by some bandits. They shot me in the side with a shotgun, like yours, and left. My buddy was outside. I heard gunfire, then the groans of walkers, a few shouts in fear. That was this morning. Do you know what happened to my friend?"

"Dead."

"Shit….."

Alright, things were making sense. The man got shot; his buddy was the body behind the counter. The bandits stuck a machete into his head, got attacked by walkers, and they bolted. Taking the undead with them.

"I'm dying." He told me matter-of-factly, "So please, either help me or finish me off. I know you're not like the men who shot me. You're human….."

"How do you know if I'm _really _human?" I questioned before the man died on me. I needed to know if I looked like a naïve prick. I assume he knew what I meant. He is- well, was- a soldier. Soldiers are usually smart.

"You already would've shot me if you weren't."

He made a good point. It made sense. Or did it make sense because I wanted it to make sense? That I really was human. Maybe I let my guard down; this guy pulls out gun # 2 he hid under his fatigues and the bullet would say hello to my brain.

"I need to see your other hand." I ordered.

"I already told you-"

"Other hand!" I exclaimed, raising my shotgun and pumping the action.

He lost it, "Then you're just gonna have to shoot me fucker! Get it the hell over with. His head fell against the wall he leaned against and let loose a terrible howl of anguish that bounced from wall to wall and floor and ceiling and pounded against my ears. I didn't know if he was screaming from the pain or the realization that I wasn't going to save him. He had given to that hope, and that will kill you. It kills you before you die. _Long _before you die.

"If I show you," he gasped out after another fit of cough-moans, "if I show you, will you help me."

I didn't answer because I didn't have an answer. To be honest, I was playing put this Mexican-standoff one nanosecond at a time.

So he decided for me. He wasn't going to stop hoping. If his hope killed him, at least he would die with a sliver of humanity intact.

Grimacing, he slowly pulled out his hand that held his stomach. Not much light anymore, hardly any light at all, and what light there was seemed to be flowing away from its source, away from soldier boy, past me and out the open door. His hand was caked in blood. It looked like he was wearing a crimson glove.

The stunted light kissed his bloody hand and caught something slender and metallic. I let loose the first round of buckshot, the wooden stock of my shotgun kicking against my rigid shoulder. The barrel bucked up out of my grasp in my state of shock, but I quickly regained control and fired again. Someone was screaming. It wasn't him. It was me. I was screaming out a mix of curses and non-sense, blaming the soldier. Blaming him for making me have to kill him. I fired again, pumped the action, and fired again until I was out of ammo. The walkers were thought to be the end, but that's wrong. We are the end. The human race ends with us killing each other in the back rooms of gas stations while trying to be cautious or hold onto hope or both.

The plume of white smoke was exiting the barrel of my shotgun as I walked forward to see the soldier in the dying light. He was dead. I knew that. I wanted to see what he had in his hand. I crept forward, the empty shotgun still raised until I was an arms length away, grabbed his wrist, and turned over his hand to view the slender silver object.

It was a crucifix.


End file.
